Reason Enough For You
by Kiinkuunkaan
Summary: Watanuki's living on his own, years in the future, believing that he no longer has the ability to see spirits.  He lives closed off from the world, lonely and distant.


Watanuki Kimihiro is 30 years old this April. He's never exactly sure what his job is because the title is in code and secretary means indentured servant. The pay is reasonable and the work not as grueling as Yuuko's jobs, so he keeps it around. It has been something like seven years since he last saw any sort of spirit, and more like five since he's seen anyone from his hometown. Sometimes he feels empty, mostly because his apartment is barely occupied and the people at work he barely knows. He makes no effort to connect to others and no effort to make a proper home. Instead he remains at his desk unless absolutely necessary to do otherwise and he takes extremely long walks in the evening and makes dinner, cleans the kitchen, and goes to bed. In the morning he gets dressed, makes the bed, eats some toast, and takes another walk before work. At work he rarely speaks and avoids casual conversation like the plague.

In high school he hated being like this, but now people seem so different from him. He's seen too much of the spirit world and felt too much and rarely has anybody else even touched on it. They don't know the sorrow of losing a kind woman who was never really woman nor have the acknowledged the affections of a sweet zashiki warashi. They haven't been chased down alleys and streets by spirits that usually want to eat him, nor have they tasted oden from a fox spirit's cart. They've never been the slave of a witch's whims nor have they been friends with a kind girl who has unfortunate bad luck, a girl who hates hurting people but always manages to through no fault of her own.

Nor have they been rescued by a boy-archer's who probably now the chief priest of a serene and possibly slightly run down temple that Kimihiro can actually picture when he closes his eyes, one of which formerly belonged to said archer. There are even more things that have happened to him, and things he's done, that no one else has. It doesn't make him feels special; it makes him feel isolated because he likes the human race, though most of them don't do anything for the other things in this world. They can be unexpectedly kind and he doesn't want that, not anymore, because the people who are kind to him usually suffer, like Doumeki. The archer bled for him, waited ten hours in the pouring rain for him, gave him part of an eye after he lost his, and altogether did too much in the name of protecting Watanuki Kimihiro.

On reflection, his classmate probably loved him incredibly, maybe as a friend, maybe as something more, or possibly in an indescribable way. There was no other way that the archer really could have felt, because the some of the things he had done were a bit extreme for the mere pseudo-friendship they had shared.

Of course, it is kind of a good thing he hasn't seen Doumeki in years, after a revelation of that sort any meeting they would've had would've been supremely awkward and probably unbearable. It's not like Doumeki would have shown something like that, or said anything had they remained in contact after high school. He would've gone on being silently beside Kimihiro, protecting him from things that cause him harm. He wonders if he would have noticed Doumeki's feelings if they'd remained in that kind of proximity. Probably not, because they aren't the most obvious things when in Doumeki's presence. Then again, he was usually distracted by other things, including spirits and his own outbursts at the guy.

Kimihiro also wonders, while on the subject of Doumeki, what the archer is really doing with his life. Is he actually the priest at the temple, as Kimihiro imagines, or has he gone on to other professions? Oddly, Kimihiro can picture the guy as a doctor. He's kind enough, even to people who aren't 'Watanuki'. The thought of him married, however, is an impossible, and oddly painful, one and the thought of him happy, or at least content, gives Kimihiro a slightly bittersweet feeling.

The early spring air is chilly, freezing his ears and flushing his cheeks as he shuffles back to his apartment. He estimates that the time is about ten at night, but he can't be sure, because his cheap wristwatch is broken and he hasn't had the time or money to get it fixed. The door handle of the building is also cold; he can't feel a change in temperature when he turns it to open the door. The walk up three flights of stairs is automatic, as is the turning of his key in the lock and the weary 'I'm home' he calls to the empty rooms. The rattle of pots in the cupboards is unnaturally loud, as it is every night. The meal he makes is delicious, because like Doumeki said, it is impossible for him to make something that tastes bad. Unfortunately, Kimihiro really doesn't care how it tastes, just that it's enough to keep him alive.

Cleaning up after himself is also automatic, as he carries the plate, utensils, and pot to the sink and diligently scrubs them clean, placing the dishes carefully in his worn dish rack. He really has nothing to do now, but he isn't tired at all. He thinks he'll probably get in bed soon to thrash around without sleep for hours; there absolutely isn't anything else to do. His pajamas are cold now, any warmth made by his inhabiting body has long since seeped away. They brush like freezing silk against his calves and chest as he pulls the two pieces on. Sliding into bed is also like braving a blizzard. Everything feels like ice, including the sheets and pillowcase. Idly, he notices that the window in his bedroom is wide open but doesn't care enough to shut it. Besides, the cracks in the walls of his apartment complex make the room nearly as cold anyways and at least he has some sort of blankets. He pulls his glasses off his face; they are also kind of old and worn. He attempts to set them on the nightstand, but knocks them off as he withdraws his hand. He curses softly and fumbles around the floor for them, the darkness hindering his progress.

Unexpectedly, he doesn't toss and turn for more than an hour before sinking into a fitful slumber. The blankets slip off his left foot as it listlessly curls into the mattress. His hair—too long again, he needs a haircut—fans out against the pillow, stray pieces shifting when the breeze floats in his open window. A somber stripe of moonlight slashes across his torso, buried beneath blankets. The large dark shape floating beside his window on the seventh story does nothing to block the silvery light from streaming in and nothing about it sets off any of his warning bells. Kimihiro slumbers obliviously on; he is ignorant of his malevolent guest and any of the danger it spells out for him.


End file.
